


you are a runner and i am my Father’s son

by nachttour



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Blood, Child Abandonment, Child Injury, Gen, Knives, M/M, Self Harm, cannon-typical abuse, child abuse explicit, child abuse mention, godly meet-cute, nor give them a second chance, post-game timeline, weird timeline shit, you are not required to forgive your abusers, you may in fact make sure they get fired from their jobs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2018-10-28 06:49:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10826004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nachttour/pseuds/nachttour
Summary: Bro lives in the post-game world with the rest of the consorts and individuals of Universe C. But he is haunted by things that he never lived and someone he has never met. As his life gets more fractal, the pantheon that he does not believe in starts paying quality attention to him.





	1. I. Shrines

“ _You should probably get up and go to work_.”  

The slender boy in his dreams makes his ribs burn like they are being rubbed by sandpaper. Sharp and sweeping scrubs with each breath in and slow dragging with each exhalation. The delicate area around the orbit of the boy’s left eye is puffed out and the sclera of the same eye is shot through with red. Reaching out and turning off Bro’s alarm with a decisive click he stopped the horrendous noise that ricocheting off the walls of Bro’s bedroom.

“ _Then again it’s not my problem if you don’t make rent, dude_.” Padding out on bare feet and dragging the hems of threadbare sweatpants that were inches too long, he left.  

Sitting up in a bolt of adrenaline Broderick Rue Strider is late for the last time. When he picked up his phone and listened to the voicemail that blipped at him like a pulsing star, it was to hear the clipped tones of his manager informing him that he would not need to come in today and that he could pick up his last check whenever he felt like strolling in. Falling back into his sweat-tangled sheets he scrubbed his palms over his eyes and groaned.

* 

When he arrived at the coffee shop his favorite bagels had sold out. Blueberry acted as an acceptable alternative, but had nothing on jalapeno and cheese. A solitary piece of pepper sat mockingly on the wax-paper lining the case, taunting him with the unachievable deliciousness . The counter-troll clicked in faux-sympathy.  “Just sold my last one a half-hour ago. You’re just not good at getting here on time.”

If this were a story he would take points off of his cashier’s observational narration. Pointing out the obvious did not allow him to change or arrive at a different conclusion. Jamming the tip that he was going to leave into his pocket, Bro took his coffee and less-delicious bagel and hunkered down in the corner to eat in peace. 

Scrolling through the job boards would take some time. Pickings at this time of year were slim. The worn-down wood of the bench bit into the backs of his thighs and wind rattled the door. All of the festivals that brought people to town had stopped, and Harley U was in session. Most of the college kids took up the entry-level pickings. In fact, two bright young things had recently joined the staff of the establishment. One of them was not very good at making sure that coffee stayed fresh. The other one was a close-talker and smiled too-wide. 

If he thought that he could handle more than a week he might turn in a resume to see if he could get a sympathy job from the manager. Certainly he had more than a hand in making sure that his regular baristas held steady employment.

The thought however, was absurd. He did not want that life, nor could he maintain it. The job at the repair-shop had been a half-assed attempt at escaping gig-based employment. Unfortunately for him, that was the only thing he was good at. 

_And whose fault is that Mr. Wonderful? Offers from MIT, Skaia Polytechnic and Harley U and you decided to flip all of that the longest bird you could find and do something on your own. Because you were too good. Because it wouldn’t be challenging enough. Because it was not cool to be where everyone else was. Or some shit._  

Pressing his eyes closed so tight that they ached, he stopped his internal text prompt. It was a curious thing that had been with him from childhood - most people heard thoughts as a voice. He had always seen his in scrolling red text - courier type like the most ancient of net-safe typography. As with most things in his life it did not make a damn bit of sense. 

The bell on the cafe chimed and some walked in, bringing the afternoon breeze with them. His napkin fluttered off of his table and flopped onto the floor, skidding away out of reach. Flapping a hand after it and catching nothing, Bro gave up on the day. Wrapping the remainder of the bagel in a second napkin procured from the condiment bar, he made his exit.   

Cutting through the back-alley Bro skirted the crowd of consorts and humans waiting to get onto the light-rail. It was a prime commuting time for those who had slept in to run to second or third classes. Some of the trolls who worked early morning also were making their way home, high-density sun protection plastered over their eyes. Signs were plastered along the alleyway in multiple languages, talking about fidelity, belief, and power. 

In passing by the shrine to Hope Bro pulled his hat down to cover his eyes. Wings reflected along the inner rims of his shades, white and curling.  The shrines tended to be built in places where those most in need of the aspect could find it. Some were located were in slums, near the docks along the river, and in dark places where the wounded could hide. If he said that he had never spent an evening curled up on one of the chairs that sat around outside for drifters to rest on, it would be a lie. 

In joking, he had tried to get into one of the Time shrines to see if he could possibly entreat the Knight to take it easy on him. In every single instance the shrine was packed and there was no possibility for him to visit. Certainly it was a popular aspect, but his inability to visit a single shrine out of the nine that were in the metropolitan area bordered on absurd.  Though the majority of his fellow Houstonians believed very deeply in the creators, it was hard for him to get on board with any of that nonsense. Asking the air for help held about as much probability of success as attempting to do a hard thing himself.

'Wishes don’t come when they are summoned. Wishes are granted based on need and the whim of whatever power is listening.' 

Such was the wisdom the spooky girl in the convenience store imparted to him. She had those looping horns that showed up in warm-caste trolls eyes the color of his favorite fabric to sew with: a deep russet brown that implied her life would be short and pointless like his. She is the only person - troll, whateverthefuck, personhood is a complicated question - that Bro made contact with on a regular basis. His landlady might count, but then maybe not. Their communication mainly consisted of sliding envelopes under one-another’s doors.  While they were not exchanging words, at least they are exchanging currency.

There’s a lot of shit in his life that is sort of ambiguous and none of it really bears dwelling on. The hard facts are: that rent is due in three days, the person that he set up the sewing commission with is waffling on design and won’t pay the other half of its price until goods are delivered, and he has a headache that is bordering on absurd with its intensity. It could just give up the pretense and actually level up to a full on migraine instead of sitting behind his eyes like a sulking toddler making a mess out of pure spite. 

Bro’s spooky-buddy said something good would happen to him today. After getting fired and the lack of delicious breakfast the day could stand to improve. The pronouncement had been delivered to his back as he stood in the humming chill of the cooler, drumming his fingers along the glass door. There was not a single instance that he can recall where she has been wrong. Any time she says to skip the nachos at the snack bar he heeds that advice like gospel.  She was also responsible for a very respectable lotto winning of a hundred, paired with a free ticket. Let it not be said he was an unfair man: he totally slipped her a twenty and the spare ticket for her help in deciding the play that evening.

*

It took three tries to get the door open. The wood had warped over the years. Add to that the storms that bunched up at the perimeter of the city and it is a recipe for the most jankass entryway he has ever contended with. It sat in beknighted company with a few of the ones he wrestled with at the youth center. Particularly the one that screamed at the hinges like it was being destroyed. 

Cumulonimbus and mammatus clouds lurk on the edges of town, clogging up the sky overhead. Having made eye contact with those partially informed his decision to give up on the gym, get a drink and head home. The cheap plastic bag crinkled in his hand, twisting from the momentum of his movement. The pressure was enough to make his jaw and sinuses throb. A note from the landlady sat at his feet. Slitting it open with a nail he glanced through the sheet, quickly coming to understand that he would be acquiring a neighbor on the floor that he previously had to himself. That meant he would have to get some of his shit out of the new person’s apartment.  The landlady was tolerant of him storing some of his larger equipment in the open suite of his floor, so long as there were not renters that wanted the space. It was a transient living area for most, college kids came and went. The floor was on the tenth-story and the elevator was faulty. Those that were inclined to stay longer than a semester were often deterred by the hike that became necessary once or twice a month. 

Jotting that down on the white-board half covered in the ghosts of old to-do lists, he set the mail down and started to head for his computer. The white noise caught him first.

~ * ~

Gravel was embedded in his cheek- the throbbing sting is oddly specific among all his other hurts. Presumably it had gotten there when the dog-nightmare-clown situation had taken it upon itself to step on his head and grind its heel down. He could see himself as a blurry and bloodied outline in Cal’s eyes.  One of them was a little scratched-- love damage from where Dave had swung him around by the arms and flung him around the apartment. A few stray strings on Cal’s arms and legs shifted in the air. Even while rocks and shit hail through the sky in some sort of green-themed apocalypse, chill prickled along his arms. More than likely though, it was shock setting in. Unlike the advice he had always given Dave, he could not seem to shake it off.  

There were feathers sticking in the blood under his head. Neon-bright and vibrant like fire. The strange conglomeration of bird-brother fought like a spirit of vengeance, weaving and shimmering in his periphery and covering the blind spots that he always had been too proud to admit having. The dude fought like he had always envisioned his brother would fight. Mercilessly, quickly, and with all of the conviction that he lacked.

Now all of the voices in his head were quiet. The vision of power and grace had disappeared as quickly as he appeared, leaving only the memory of the sound of snapping bones in his wake. The strings that had moved his arms and legs for all of his life had been sliced as cleanly as that limb had separated from the spirit. Cal floated away on the arm of a living nightmare and all of the invisible hands on his body fell away. The underlying scaffolding in his mind fell away as well, leaving a terrifying void in its wake. The horizon slowly spun as the ground beneath him rotated. The shale or whatever they had fought on had grooves that looked like a record from a distance. Beneath the ear jammed against the ground, gears rustled and turned.

Sneakers moved over the ground. Hot air rippled the blood pooling around him, chasing at the chill that caused him to shiver and his teeth to chatter. A teenage boy kneeled down, eyes inscrutable under an oversized hood. Of course there would be some jackass standing around in costume as the world ended. It was definitely in the fashion of his life for something just like that to happen. Given that his hands were not really responding to commands and his sword was lodged in his chest, Bro was forced to stare up at the idiot instead of other options. Points to the kid: he was not freaking out as hard as one ought to be given the circumstances. Maybe he too had reached his saturation point for weird.

In a way he supposed it was sort of thematically and ironically appropriate that some vision of a young man would appear to witness his death. Not like there was anyone else there that would give a shit. His brother had fucked off into parts unknown, tempered like a stiletto into a game and war-ready assassin. Cal had been stolen, but even as he thought it he wondered. Cal went nowhere that Cal did not wish to. All of this seemed a little silly to contemplate in his final moments, but they seemed to be taking their sweet fucking time in arriving. For something as grievous as what had happened, it seemed like he was stuck in a throbbing, burning nightmare.

Walking over through the crunching gravel the kid brought over his shades, purposefully straightening the arms and sliding them into place on his face. The smoke did not sting Bro’s eyes as hard, and the quality of the fabric on his witness was not near polyester. It was the sort of material that was used in classical garments - heavy weave cotton. The tail on his hood trailed like a wind-sock and stirred in the air. Silently he rose in Bro’s approximation - points for execution and flair where they deserved to be given.  Dude had a sweet smile, and the sort of jawline that would only get harder with time. Bro’s attempt to joke or say anything at all ended in a retching fit, as blood had pooled in the back of his throat. Dribbling his own fluids over his chin and neck had not been the look he was going for. The boy wrinkled his nose, wincing his sympathy.

“See I’m at a loss here, really.” Tucking his feet up into the air, the boy hovered. It was just one more in a list of physical impossibilities for the day. “Breathing. Possibility. Chance. Revival. It’s a thing that I do. But you really, really fucked up. And you really fucked someone up. Someone who is really, really important to me.”

Floating dude was not wrong. Bro tilted his head and stared at him, as effective on the ground as some of his other puppets without a handler.

“But I can’t help but think you’re not like that. I know the person that you splintered off of. And he’s not like you at all. I think it was that creepy fucking doll. And maybe game shenanigans. Who really knows? Calliope maybe.” The boy mused to himself, still deep in his own conflict.  

Cal pretty much was the radest and worst thing that had ever happened in his life. The teen turned to look at him, eyes piercingly bright like an afternoon sky. “So let’s play a game. I know you love those right?”

Yes. No. Both and neither. He inclined his head as much as he was able.

“You have to remember my name. It’s real easy. I was Dave’s best friend.” 

A litany of moments crowded for supremacy in his mind. Tracked internet traffic, sitting in the front room and playing video games and listening for the muffled curses of the little man as he worked his way through the puzzle labyrinths. A letter, and a present bought off of Ebay. He only had three friends and only one other one was a boy. 

“John.” 

The teen raised his eyebrows, impressed. “Look at you. I added more rules because I’m the one playing the game and I get to if I want to. Answer this question for me. Do you regret what you did to him?”

Newly named John did not need to clarify who he was talking about. Rocks fell from the sky behind his silhouetted shoulders and the panes of his glasses reflected the light. Bro’s blood slowly seeped out onto the ground. He thought that maybe dying could have been enough. It was not enough. He had not even helped the strange version of Dave that had come back to him.

“...yes.“

John stared at him with the look of an overprotective boyfriend who had caught Bro looking at his girl. It was a hard look coming off of such a young face, but the forearms that were folded in his lap looked like they had lifted things heavier than video game controllers.

“You going to be a giant tool if I give you another chance and breathe life into you again? Or are you going to fix yourself and be less of a fuckup?”

It physically hurt him to grit out the words. “All I can do is try.”

“Good enough for me.” John beamed. “I can’t say he’ll forgive you or ever want to see you again. But I like new things. Otherwise what’s the point in having these powers anyway?”  With a look of glee John pulled the sword out of his stomach. Bro felt the metal catch and drag on lower rib that it bisected. He blacked out, the feeling of being run-through in reverse more than he could take. It was not as if he had anyone to show off for any longer.

~ * ~

 Getting up off of the floor where he had fallen down, Bro wobbled over to the sink and was sick. Curling his nails against the tiles he ran the cold tap, splashing some of it on his face.

_ And here we are again! Not only are you a class-A fuckup but you’re probably going insane aren’t you?  _

_ Just be nice. For once in your life take it easy. Having hallucinations is not a good thing, but the psychiatrist that I went and saw seemed to think that I have a very active imagination.  _

_ That would mostly be because you did not tell her that you are losing time. You didn’t tell her about how you think about yourself. It is a little fractal, wouldn’t you agree?  _

_ I don’t know much at all. Particularly not about psychology.  _

_ Liar.  _

_ One does not become a psychiatrist simply by reading papers and diagnostic criterion. There are elements of training that I am notably lacking and have no plans to acquire.  
_

_ So what are you going to do about all of this stud-muffin? It probably would behoove you to get the bag of sex-toys out of the new-neighbor's bedroom. And all of the plants on the windowsill are going to be irritated at losing the light.  _

_ I’ll leave the plants as a housewarming gift. The sex-toys not so much. Bag of dildoes does not say ‘welcome to the complex’. It’s a bit of an expensive gift for a stranger anyway.  _


	2. II. Neighbor

II. Neighbor

Shuffling up the creaky-ass steps of his apartment two at a time, Bro paused in front of the door to pick up the mail. Fucking asshole kid that delivered for the building always dropped his shit in front of the door instead of jamming it through the slot. Just because he opened the door on their hand the one time, no more mail delivered in the correct fashion. Maybe it was a little funny to hear them squeak in fear and pain. Maybe, secretly he hoped they might try putting their hand through the slot again. It could have been interesting to switch stimuli - good and bad. No game to play anymore because the fuckwit just dropped mail on the ground and left. It sort of seemed to him that there ought to be some sort of rule against that level of antipathy. Nothing worth stealing ever got delivered. Numbered in the stacks were a few bills, the occasional late-fee, and a community flier advertising local business and coupons that showed up on Thursdays.

Gods in their Houses when did life get so trite that he started receiving coupons? Coupons were a thing that suburban moms in sweatpants used. Little rectangles of banality intended to be carefully cut out while sitting and contemplating the best deal on organic milk and stuffing a screaming child into pants. If it were some of the houses he had been in prior, the sort of person that clipped coupons also sent the other two non-screaming sprogs out the store and down the street to get a popsicle and a pack of smokes. 

There sure as fuck there weren’t kids at his place. Didn’t want them, like them, or want anything to do with the opposite sex to have them _._ Certainly no sweatpants graced his tight ass other than for sleeping. It stayed a choice rump with pure dedication -at the gym five days out of seven. If he pushed Bro might be able to make it six, but tearing a muscle in his shoulder really hampered progress and healing was irritatingly slow. When it came to bum-covering it was jeans or nothing. Add in a shirt just a little too tight, pop a collar, throw a hat -snapback or cowboy- and it was enough to call a look. A style even--he is a man of allure and carefully crafted confidence. When it was nothing the body on display was photoshoot ready. 

A long time ago when he was skinny and small, standing with the foster-parent d’jour one of the acolytes serving Those In Residence had glibly announced that his body was a gift given by the gods. Pressed against the bony column of the man’s thigh he had been forced to stand and listen as the acolyte droned on about worthiness, meaning, and sacrifice. The takeaway from that lesson, beyond the fact that he hated the smell of his guardian’s detergent was that if you wanted Their favor you had to shape yourself into something worth having. From the frequency with which his guardians changed, he harbored doubts about his desirability. 

It was not a matter that he let himself linger on, instead he actively chose to speed up the process by which the idiots would inevitably decide that he was an empty and angry child motivated by spite and then return him. It was a game. A game that he was good at. They returned him every time and his ability to speed up the process had improved to the point where the whole farce became less and less necessary. 

At the end of the hall the window for his floor sat open. Some of the building’s resident doves cooed and warbled at one-another, roosting on the ledge. Making his way over to the open space he let the hot air from outside press in. The clouds were sitting heavy and ominous over them and the air felt thick enough to hold in his fingers. It was the sort of weather that heralded a tornado. 

The pennants and streamers snapped in the air outside of one of the many Homes that the Gods could visit. The splashes of red and green told him that it was a designated residence for Space and Time. The third floor of that building was the one that he could never get into - it was always filled to visitor capacity. Space seemed to be the one that he was able to interact with, the basement level of the building finished and expanded. It was cool down in the shrine and he had spent many afternoons hiding away from the sun or his fellow foster-kids. 

Maybe your own memories too. They aren’t very pretty are they?

Bro pushed away from the window and sighed, walking directly into someone standing behind him. The fact that they had walked up on him at all was startling enough. Rarely had he met someone quiet enough to get the drop on him. Directly following his deep surprise came tactile impressions. The knit ot the dude’s tee-shirt. The vague smell of fresh air and some sort of subtle cologne. Underneath the shirt, solid chest and the subtle scrape of hair catching fabric. 

Taking a half-step back Bro held up his hands in a vaguely conciliatory gesture. “My bad.”

The stranger had glasses that were reflecting the clouds outside and a smile that stretched approximately half a mile wide. “Nah, it’s fine. I stepped up too close to you. I was just going to ask though, are you the other person that lives up here?” 

“Yeah. One and only. Soon to be one of two. There’s another dude moving in soon. If you’re thinking about the building, landlady’s a good one. She’s real chill as long as you don’t host ragers at your place and you pay your rent on time. Also, don’t flush weird shit down the toilets. Plumbing’s old and things get bad really quick.” 

The stranger adjusted the backpack slung over one of his shoulders and chuckled. “Good to know. You could function as a real-estate agent couldn’t you?” 

Shrugging and making sure not to hunch his shoulders, Bro leaned back on his heels. “She’s just a good lady. And people don’t stick around so much for these floors because the elevator’s shitty. But she’s all alone and this is her retirement. I dunno.” If he could fix the elevator he would. Unfortunately his line of expertise ran more toward fine mechanics rather than industrial machines. “Just don’t want to come home to some CSI shit to find out that there’s a rotting corpse in a room and her cats ate her. If there are other people that live here, the odds of that happening exponentially decrease.” 

“Well lucky for her retirement and you, I’m the guy that picked up the extra apartment.” Thrusting a hand out, the dude grinned. “I’m John Egbert.” 

Taking the proffered hand Bro was greeted by a mild shock. Startled enough to jump he resolved not to look even more uncool. He held John’s hand a moment longer, letting the buzzer vibrate uncomfortably between them and maintaining eye contact. John chuckled under his breath and let go first, the small metal disc tucked along the inside of his ring-finger. “I would say I’m sorry but I’m not. I did get you.” Grinning a little John tilted his head. “I hope you’ll forgive me though. I love a good prank.” 

If this was the neighbor it was going to be an interesting time. If this fool liked to play, he had chosen the right floor to come to. 

* 

John Egbert’s boxes came up in a slow supply-train of objects. A few bags. A mattress held at the other end by a female troll made of sharp angles and flashing teeth that cackled like a witch from vintage film. She was so short that he half expected the mattress to roll over her head and further down the stairs. Theoretically she could stab it with her headgear and keep it in place, but that might not be so good for the structural integrity of the equipment. The pair of them managed admirably. When he offered assistance he was smacked in the shin with a cane and that put an end of that. 

A few other boxes with housewares came up via the elevator that decided miraculously that it would function for the entire duration of the move. Bro saw this in fits and starts as he went about his day. A few errands took him out of the house -- he had to get extra fabric, and later had to put a few packages in the mail. Around gym-time it seemed that most of the boxes had disappeared into the apartment. Passing by John in the hall, Bro caught his eye. “Take good care of the succulents.” 

“Oh those are yours!” John dimpled, amusement writ plainly on his face. “I don’t know a thing about plants but my sister is awesome with them. Did you want to take them back?” 

Bro twitched his shoulders. “The old lady left them up here and the sun isn’t any good on my side of the building.” 

“Well then, it looks like I have a small garden.” John glanced down at the collection of envelopes tucked under his elbow. “Have lots of things to mail?” 

“I work from home. I do...crafts. Lucky for me we have an exemplary postal service to convey my work off to it’s recipients.” Bro tried to sort out his impulses. Part of him wanted to retreat back to his apartment and fall back into his work-bench and figure out a new pattern or disappear into the labyrinths of circuits. The other half wanted to lean closer and make a study of the handsome face in front of him. 

John Egbert did not seem like the kind of guy to cozy up against in a shower stall. His hands looked rough, and Bro could imagine the texture of them sliding along his sides and over his ass. Perhaps they would linger over the rise of his ribs, his thumbs might catch the juncture of his waist. If he was very lucky he would be the one that John cornered, pushed into place and held still. None of this was worth thinking about. The gym awaited him, routine awaited him. Whenever he tried to date it went horrifically awry and that was gospel. 

John apparently was the sort of person who had been raised to maintain intense and earnest eye contact during a conversation and Bro could feel the weight of his regard like a hand resting on his face. Instead of asking the sort of insightful question that ought to match the look instead he blurted out, “So guns, drugs, money, or sex? All four? Or maybe are you trying for a tech takeover of Crockercorp? If you are I can tell you right now that it is not going to happen.” 

Deadpanning as hard as he ever had in his life, Bro raised an eyebrow at him. “If you can guess which one I’ll cut you in on business.” He raised a finger to his lips to indicate the secrecy of the whole endeavor and pressed past John to escape down the hallway. 

As the elevator doors shut behind him, John’s voice trailed after him in warning. “Careful. It’s been finicky. The lights were doing somethi-” With a soft clunk the doors slotted into place and the elevator began its descent. Only one floor down, the service light flashed in warning and the dull whine of a warning buzzer rattled his teeth. Scrubbing at his jaw, Bro reached over and pried the service panel off of the door. The last time this shit had happened he had been stuck in the elevator for three hours. The buzzer shut off. Picking up the small phone in the corner he called down and left a message for the landlady.

Prying the doors partially open showed that there was a body-sized hole to crawl through where the elevator had stopped between floors. Every horror movie that he had ever seen in his life argued that trying to wiggle through the opening would end in a separation he was not equipped to endure. Instead of attempting anything of the sort he turned from the doors and braced along the handrail to scramble up and into the maintenance hatch. It took a couple of tries before the hinge gave and allowed him access to the top of the car. 

A pair of green eyes caught behind glasses met his through the crack in the doors. A stupid thought chased through his mind - that the frames on the dude’s glasses served like a frame on a painting. Glass was in place in exhibits for two reasons: to encourage the things behind it to stay put, or to keep the hands of those observing off of what was on display. 

Dirk wanted to touch what was on display. The gentleman looking at him with the careful assessment of a sport hunter had a splattering of silver along his temples. The lines worn into his tanned skin were born of smiles and sun accumulated over a life lived outside. On his arm a young lady turned and swatted at his arm. 

“That elevator’s always broken! C’mon Jakey, let’s head up.” 

The arm that curled around her waist was solid like the branch of a tree. Bro could feel the ghosts of each fingertip resting along his hip, spreading out slowly over his stomach and bunching the fabric in their travels. “Of course my sweet chickadee. Let’s head back.” 

A second, deeper voice joined the first. “Do lets.” 

Second guest for the evening dressed business casual with very trendy hair. Pale and tall and toned. Sort of guy that Dirk would pass by in the gym in at least four iterations before he walked out the door. A lesser version of his own carefully crafted physical state if he were honest. The fantasy of what that man’s attentions would be like faded away with the sound of their voices.

The trio rounded the corner out of sight and Bro felt confident to exit the elevator. There was a saner space accessible from the top of the car - one that would not cause him to be bisected if the elevator were to fall. Bracing both palms against the doors he made enough room to squeeze through on the floor above the car. The warning indicator on the panel remained lit. Stretching a foot out to kick the hatch on the top of the car closed Bro lamented the abandoned packages on the bottom of the car and sat down to wait. 

*

“Heart has no pity, Breath gives no fucks, Void is full of caring, maybe you'll find some Hope. Even embrace Life, for yours is dearly important just as they all are.”

Bro glowered over the ridge of his bag of Doritos at his convenience store companion. “Time is always running. Yeah, there are a million things that people say about the different gods.” 

She waggled a Slim Jim at him and added it into his bag without scanning it. “Time is literally running from you.” 

Scrubbing a hand through his hair before he could catch himself, Bro nodded. “You got that fucking right.” Between the elevator adventure earlier in the day and the postal hub near his apartment closing early, nothing had gotten sent out on time. “This week has been so much of a clusterfuck that I would almost consider asking the Knight to auspice on my behalf.”

Kassat - that was the name printed out in slightly smudged triplicate on her nametag - tilted her head. “You should be careful which Knight you are petitioning. You might get Doom. That would be no good.” 

“And for that to matter even slightly I would have to give a shit about the living faiths.” Bro leaned against the counter, his hip jutting into a faded vape flavor ad partially overlaid by an advertisement for a new flavor of glow-grubs. 

Kassat wiggled her fingers at him ominously. “They give a shit about you. You might want to reciprocate the interest.” 

Bro took his bag, leaving an extra five tucked under her keyboard. There were times when he did not have enough money to get a gallon of milk. There were other times that he had a little extra to share. His Dorrito supplier definitely would need to be kept happy in order that the stock in the corner store might remain plentiful. It was an old-style snack and most establishments did not offer it. It generally was given at altars for Heart. That was where he had acquired his taste for the things -- stealing from some of the shrines on his many late night meanders through the city. 

The man from earlier strolled through the hallways of his thoughts. Probably another new neighbor, some sort of a deluge of company after a drought. If he was canny -- maybe he could find an excuse to be on the floor that he had seen the old fox walking on. Perhaps they might walk down to the laundry room on the ground floor together.

Kassat waved a hand in front of his face amiacably, poking the tip of his nose with a talon. “Leave. I’ve got customers and you’ve got other things to be doing with your time.” 

Tucking his bag under his arm, he slipped out onto the street. 

~ * ~

The blood stain on his jeans did not originate from his body. A long streak was drying into a stiff mess where Dave’s face had come into contact with his knee. There was an argument -- a very sane argument to be made for the fact that one ought not put hands on a child in the manner that he did. 

That same argument did not adequately address the fact that armaggeddon would be coming soon. 

Are you ready to play, Dirk?

Every night the same question followed him to sleep. Cal sat on his shelf most times, feet dangling and waving slightly in the breeze coming off of the swamp cooler jammed into the window. 

At some point he had stopped being able to feel things. Sometimes his hands did things without the full cooperation of his mind. There were occasions that the images of fire, and madness were so vivid that they overlaid reality that they walked in together. For that reason they trained. 

Dave’s nose was broken, but he’d put it back in place. The viscous clotted blood had stopped dribbling down his lip and he had put himself to bed a while after, bag of frozen peas wrapped in a dish towel acting as a pillow. 

The swelling would go down. They would work together tomorrow and Dave would get better. 

They would win.

Cal watched him from his shelf, grinning widely. 

~ * ~

Bro stood in front of the Heart shrine without full recall of how he had arrived. 

The crowd that petitioned the heart deities were diverse. Some were looking for companionship. Some were looking to reach someone in their lives. Others were looking to destroy parts of themselves and come away new. 

Bro wondered if he belonged in the former category. His bag sat under his elbow and the last penitent at the offering station had moved away. The light of the mid afternoon shimmered through the windows and burned a line along his spine. Pulling his pocket knife out of his back pocket he took a sanitizing wipe from one of the niches and wiped down the bowl used to receive tribute. The practice of leaving things was common. For the Princes in particular sacrifice was more effective. 

Flicking the blade open he took a breath to steady his hand. If he cut too deep it would end in a trip to the emergency room. The point of the knife made contact with his thumb only to skid away as someone touched his wrist. Making it a point not to jerk as that might cut either himself or the idiot that was touching him, he found himself looking at a younger version of the silver fox from his building. 

At least at first glance that was his impression. Slower study led to a more nuanced comparison. The young man resting a hand on his and ever-so-carefully guiding it away from the knife looked much brighter than the gentleman that had moved in. There was a lightness to his demeanor that melted some of Bro’s irritation away like sunshine dissipating fog. 

“I know it’s popular to bleed for Heart... but I would rather think that you don’t need to suffer to speak to him, if that is the facet that you’re aiming for. Even if you’re not, the rogue tends to like play more than flesh, and the mage is much more interested in intricacies. Also figurative representations of connections.” The dork finger-guns at him and damn him it is endearing rather than stupid. 

“I haven’t seen you before... and I don’t know you to say much.” The lad offered a subtle smile. “I’m just going to be bold as brass and say that you have nice... strong hands. Don’t hurt them for prayers. Maybe put them to better use instead?” 

Flipping the knife closed and stepping aside so that the next penitents could step up and make their congress at the shrine, Bro shrugged. “I guess. I don’t even know why I stopped in. Maybe a whim.” 

Adjusting his bag from the store Bro went on. “They’re not listening. This has always been my home shrine though - more than any of the other aspects.” It was the first one that he had ever slept in after running away from a foster home. It was also the first one that he had ever silently begged for help in. It was not the last one that those prayers went unanswered at. The angle of the light from the windows caught the guy’s eyes and it was like looking at illuminated emeralds. If it were not such a striking sight, Bro would find it absurd. 

“I think that if you believe, more things are possible than you might initially imagine.” Skewering him with another brilliant smile, the young man turned and melted into the crowd. Moments later, struck by the oddity of the whole of it, Bro turned to make his way home. Dropping the groceries on his counter he toed his shoes off and fell into bed. 

*

Gods he hates babies. Everything about infants raises alarm and anxiety in his mind. Seeing a cooing face, or small feet kicking in the air he is seized by the irrational fear that he’s going to injure them. He has done his level best never to be alone in a room with a child for longer than a few minutes at a time. 

Bro knows it is going to be the baby dream the minute that he sees that it’s an Old Fashioned sitting on a soggy cocktail napkin. The bar in this dream is always the same. A little tacky under his left hand. It sticks to the gloves that he always is wearing. Someone probably got cola or other shit on the wood marked by divots and the bartender never quite got over to swipe it up. 

The guy bartending in this dream is different. He is tall and slender and has some tinted-glasses situation happening that make his eyes look pale and strange. Dressed a lot classier than the folks working at the dives he goes to normally. The bartender and what he looks like really is inconsequential. The reason for his certainty on this matter is that this is going to be a baby dream. 

The baby dream happens the same, always. In the back of his mind he knows there is a kid at his house. The kid has been alone. Sitter left at seven. There is a text in his back pocket saying that she had to bounce. It’s nine. Theoretically kid is asleep. He’s not really a baby anymore. Not really. He’s three. ( _He’s a baby. Fucking hell he’s a baby. Why isn’t he home? It is like there are weights in his pockets physically anchoring him to the seat. He can just imagine what it’s like knowing the kids at the shelter. They cry. They wake up at weird times and get scared. Why is he in the bar? Why can’t he leave?_ ) So there is time for another drink. Pulling the cherry out of his cocktail he rolls it around on his tongue, pulls the stem off and manages the trick where he ties a knot with his tongue. That one always goes over really well. 

The bartender has come over and is watching him with a face devoid of emotion. He really must not give a fuck about his tips. Looking closer Bro is struck by the feeling the guy could be his twin from years back. Same kind of long jaw and hair that wants to touch the sky with the assistance of gel. He would not have been caught dead without his shades at that age, but this guy isn’t a perfect match. 

“Anything else?” 

Bro rolls the stem in his mouth. This part is new. ( _Maybe he can go home. He’s imagining a small blotchy face covered in tears and snot. Perhaps pull-ups that probably need a change._ ) Tipping his glass back he crunches the ice-cubes between his teeth. “Thinking I might have time for another one.” 

Usually the bartender lines another drink up. Several more, each a little stronger than the rest. In the next room over in the bar a small crying voice gets more insistent and more hoarse with each passing glass. This time there is no crying, no child that should not be anywhere near a fucking bar. Instead there is a bartender who looks about three seconds from throwing his ass out, and the fluttering panic of being in the wrong place at the wrong time ricocheting around his ribs. 

This is different. Beneath him the seat squeals - protesting against the weight of yet another burden that it never asked for. This is a different dream. Sweat trickles along his hairline, threading its way down his neck. 

The sound his nails make against the condensation-slick edge of the glass and his stomach cramping bring his focus back into the moment. The menthol-fruit scent of his cocktail haunting the air around him making his mouth water in the precursor to heaving it all back out again. The bartender takes his money without comment and disappears to the end of the bar to ring him out. When his face came level with Bro’s own, it was not a kind expression. The bartender’s voice was sharp and to the point. “Go home.” 

Bro’s eyes snapped open and he jerked up into a sitting position. Though all logic argued against it - he walked into the next room to make sure that his charge was not lying unattended on the floor. Nothing but the shitty rug decorated with different silhouettes of consorts from IKEA looked back at him. A square of moonlight split the room making the faded dye of the rug a little brighter than the gloom surrounding it. Rubbing a hand along his face Bro glanced at the alarm clock that sat near one of his work benches. The red glow from the numbers could have been reassuring after that strange dream but it also reminded him of the glow from the neon lights in the window. The clock reported four thirteen in the morning. 

“Welp.” Talking to himself had become a habit early on. It made the other kids ignore him because he was annoying. It helped his thoughts fall into order. Grabbing a pack of cigarettes his fingers crumpled the empty packaging. He was a grown-ass man and he was not going to cry in the middle of his apartment at four in the morning over cigarettes. That was not something that he was going to do. Frustration was a mountain to be climbed, and not an avalanche to be buried under. 

Welp indeed. Good thing that dream wasn’t real, isn't it?

Dropping the crumpled cigarette box into the trash at the edge of the kitchen, Bro walked the perimeter of the carpet for lack of anything else to do with himself. There was a half-finished program sitting on his hard drive that could use attention but the concentration needed to code was unlikely to come. The thought of sleep was so far from his mind as to be cosmic in its distance. More likely that he could run to the nearest stellar body than he could get restful sleep for the rest of the night. Taking a laptop and tucking it under his arm he made his way up to the roof via the old access stairs. Practice and familiarity made it so he could avoid the creaky step. 

And what is it that you are going to do out here? Stare at the sunrise? Find some sort of catharsis? The weather can’t answer the question about why you are a waste of molecules and fiber.

Dirk opened his laptop, feeling the pressure and the moisture of the air pressing down on him like hands. 

The door opening behind him made his back lock up like it had been cast in metal. No one came up here at this time of night. He had positioned himself on the edge of the landing, toes stretching out and into the abyss. With the right application of pressure he would be gone and that would be the end of it. 


End file.
